A/N: Hey there, random strangers. I don't really know what to say, so I'll start with this: I used this OC in a story, but I wasn't happy with it at all. I'm good in writing at any points of view in my mother language, but I simply suck at it when writing in English. And I love this OC so much that I really want to write a somewhat decent story with her. Prologue is boring, but I don't thing I can write something different for that purpose. Whatever, I'm rambling now. Reviews (I don't care if positive or negative ones) are always welcomed. I DON'T OWN KATEKYO HITMAN REBORN! AND VARIA.
Prologue: 29th of February - a perfect person is born.
Hello there, stranger. What are you doing in my head? I'm not going to ask 'why me?', because after all, I'm pretty awesome, but still… What the fuck? What do you want? Answers? I'm afraid I don't have them, because everything is just too uninteresting to observe, so I can't help you. So can you please fuck off now?
No answer? Cat got your tongue, random stranger, because you're pretty quiet. All you do is listening to my… thoughts. Maybe I'm finally crazy, who knows, maybe there's nobody in my head. Whatever, since you're here (maybe you're not, I can't tell that), I'll tell you some things about my perfect self. We're going to have a good time, I promise, after all, I love talking (in this case - thinking) about myself.
My real name doesn't really matter, but you can call me Valentina. After all, that's how everybody call me since I moved to Italy for the first time. You see, I'm not really Italian, but I'm pretending to be Italian, because I was pretty much hiding back then. There were a strong mafia family plus some angry drug dealers that didn't like me. They didn't like me so much that they wanted me dead. So here I am, with the fake name, past and shit, still trying to hide even if I'm stronger and richer than them now. You can call it a habit, I guess. And old habits die really, really hard and I talk from experience.
Whatever. I was born in Marseille, France, exactly at 01:47am on 29th of February. I lie a lot, but the birth date is real. I swear. My mom used to say that it's something rare, I call it fate. I don't believe in fate, but that's a completely different question. An awesome person needs awesome birth date. And I'm awesome.
I don't really know what to say about my childhood, but I'll try. My parents were normal, I think they were. No 'Psycho for hire' genes and things like that. My dad was a secretary or something similar and my mom was unemployed. I'm the only child (I don't know about brothers and sisters) and when you're the only one, there are two opinions - your parents spoiling you rotten or wanting you to be the president. I'm the second case. Mom and dad weren't that optimistic - after all, your kid being a freaking president is too much - but they still wanted me to become someone important.
Shit were normal at first. But when they found out that I wasn't fond of studying, things became bad. And when they found out about my stealing habits and my weird liking to weed, things became really, really bad. I mean, no money, locking in the closet, a slap here and there. And the slap soon evolved into kicks and broken bones. They thought I'll be a better person with that kind of treatment, I became even worse. Just to show them that they can't change me, I continued changing and changing until I became a mess.
Random stranger, I think I forgot to tell you how plain I was back then. Dull brown hair, sucky eyebrows, skinny, a little tall, a lot of beauty marks. The only remarkable thing about me were the eyes - very strange blue-green, almost neon, color. But they faded in the background, just like all of my other features. And when I started walking the path of a true criminal, the looks were the first thing I changed.
I started with dying my hair. It was black at first, then a couple shades of blonde, black again, dark brownish-red and finally - the neon, almost glowing red. I still love that color and my hair is still like that. Clothes changed too. Lots of leather and tight clothes, killer heels and wedges. Ring or two on every finger, chains, five or more bracelets. I looked like a true rebel, my parents didn't like it and I loved it for that reason. I still dress like that, my hair is still red and my make-up - still strange, even if I don't have anybody to impress now.
Anyways, let's return to the oh-so-sad childhood story. I continued with my not-so-legal habits, adding some more to the list (gambling, drinking, shit stronger and meaner than weed). I wasn't a rebel anymore, oh no, I was a criminal. My parents completely stopped looking after me, meaning they weren't giving me any money and attention, and that's when gambling became actually useful. But the money weren't enough, so I started selling shit. Illegal medicine, at first, after that - weed and some shrooms.
I was 16 years old back then, but I wasn't too young for enemies. Local dealers weren't too happy with my existence and even my awesomeness didn't help. They wanted me out, but I didn't want that - after all, who wants to be poor. There were a couple of beatings meant to scare me, but I'm a stubborn bastard. I didn't learn and I got my very first scar from the thug life.
I still remember it, stranger, like it was yesterday. The docks, the wind and the hobo on the bench. And I was there, with two mean-looking, all muscle guys. I was pretending I didn't know what did I do, but the bastards knew I was acting. There were threads, some hits in the face, things like that, but I was used to this (after all, my parents were sucky, thinking that this is a good method). When that didn't work, I found myself restrained by one of the idiots. The other was lifting my shirt and I thought 'Fuck, I'm so raped', but then there was a knife and a huge 'K.' carving on my belly, like the name of their boss.
I don't know how I'm still alive after that, because I was so afraid back then, like I was going to die. But that's not really important. And that was the reason for the fake name. And the reason for moving in Italy. The change of countries was somewhat easy, after all, I had a lot of rich kids in my friendlist (being a small drug dealer has its benefits). My parents stopped giving shit about me a year or two ago, they weren't a problem too.
Italy was strange for me. The weather, culture and people - completely foreign. But I learned how to live and how to earn money. The money part was hard at first, but I have a not-so-hidden, one of my very few, skill - I curse and insult everybody all the time, but when the desperate need for money strikes, I can be charming. Like, a lot of charming. Sleeping with the right men wasn't a problem too, it wasn't like I actually slept with somebody I loved before.
When I finally reached the big twenties, I was already part-time dealer for information, part-time Psycho for hire. But I went too far with that too. The money were never enough, that's why I started with the double-agent thing, pretending to be on the side of two mafia families at war. At the same time. And I was selling information to a third one. When they finally found out, I gained more and more scars and even more enemies. Everybody wanted me dead and that's why I returned to France.
A year passed and I was too afraid to do a thing. Everything I did was to perfect my fighting skill. During that one year, I learned that the battle hammer is actually a perfect weapon, if you want your enemies smashed to pieces. And I was getting better and better with it. But that didn't make me richer. In the end, I was broke, desperate and clean of drugs (not liking it at all). But the miracle actually happened.
The day was 24th of November, my lowest point in life and thug life. When the call came, I was so happy that I couldn't breathe, the only bad point being the place of the offer - Italy. A friend of mine told me, that a friend of his friend knew a piece of very valuable information.
The Varia were recruiting new members. And that's how my pathetic life changed.
P.S. I don't know how that name stuck in my brain.